Enticed (Dark Passions) Page 2

  I scowled at him and crossed my arms. “Seriously, what’s your deal?” I asked.

  He leaned back a bit and shrugged. “I invest in real estate and art,” he said.

  I let out a small laugh. “I bet the biker look goes off really well with your clients,” I said, grinning. excitement.

  He looked at me thoughtfully while slowly circling the rim of his tumbler with his index finger. Watching him, I felt my pulse start to race again and my nipples tighten. “Actually, those are some of my clients over there,” he said, pointing to the table I’d seen him at earlier. There were four men, all dressed in expensive three-piece suits.

  “They don’t mind your casual attire?” I asked, brushing another stray lock of hair off my cheek.

  “This is my off-hours outfit,” he said matter-of-factly and shrugged, his finger still caressing the curve of his glass.

  I tore my eyes away from his strong, dexterous fingers, smoothed down the lap of my dress, and straightened myself in my seat so that I was almost eye-level with him. In the most business-like tone I could muster, I said “I just moved to the city and my walls are a little bare. I could use a stunning photograph or two of the city to liven the place up.”

  He nodded, and took another sip of his whiskey. “What do you have in mind?”

  I could feel myself getting wistful as I said, “A stunning photograph of the New York skyline at night.”

  I saw interest flare in his eyes as he asked, “Why the skyline?”

  I shrugged and said, “While I’m thrilled with my new apartment, it’s on the sixth floor of a low rise. I don’t exactly have a panoramic view of the city.”

  I looked at him expectantly as his eyes caressed the curves of my lips. He finally met my gaze, his eyes suddenly dark and intense, and said, “I think I have just the thing for you.”

  There was something so potent, so forceful, so searing about his gaze that I felt my insides begin to tremble with desire. With our eyes locked, it was just too much, and I wanted to tear my gaze away from him, but I couldn’t. His eyes were demanding a connection with mine and refused to let me turn away.

  “Give me your number,” he commanded, “And I’ll take you to see one of my galleries.”

  I felt myself hesitate, and he saw it in my eyes. He reached his hand over to cover mine. His grip was strong and warm. “I want to see you again, Melanie. And for that to happen, I need your number.”

  Remembering my resolution to swear off men, I shook my head and pulled my hand away. “Give me your card or something. I’ll call you.”

  With his eyes blazing, Bradley leaned forward and said firmly, “No you won’t. You’re going to chicken out, and by the time you change your mind I’ll be old and gray.” He pulled out his Smartphone, tapped it a couple of times, and then looked at me expectantly. “Your number,” he commanded again.

  I took a deep breath. Then I gave him my number.

  Satisfied, he put his phone away, then reached into his pocket for his wallet. He pulled out a card and handed it to me. I looked down at it and audibly gasped. Bradley Gibson. The Bradley Gibson. Owner of several chain hotels. And art collector extraordinaire. How did I not put two and two together? Art was just his hobby, but he was well-known for discovering up-and-coming talent, buying their works at low prices, and selling high when they became famous.

  “Now you know where to find me too,” he said. “I’ll call you soon to set up a time for visiting the gallery.” Then he stood up, and with a scorching expression in his eyes that made my core melt, he tilted up my chin, held my gaze for a moment, and then softly pressed his sensual lips to the corner of my trembling mouth. I could feel the prick of his stubble on my cheek, his warm breath on my lips, and it made my heart rate quicken, my head spin, and my body throb with yearning for him.

  As I watched him walk back over to his table, his jeans just fitted enough for me to make out the shape of his awe-inspiringly tight ass, I let out a little moan of sweet torture. No question. I was a gonner.

  ***

  “You’ve got the wrong office. Corporate is on the twelfth floor, not the tenth,” Sarah said first thing Monday morning while leaning against the door to my office and taking in my outfit with an amused expression.

  I was wearing an ash colored Dior blazer over a vintage pencil skirt, and a pair of black suede Jimmy Choo pumps. With one hand on my hip, I raised an eyebrow at Sarah, and looked her up and down in mock distain. She had on a chunky gold necklace, purple suede come-fuck-me heels, and a mauve sheath dress with a gold belt around the waist and a leopard print along the hem. “Let me guess. You were out ‘couging’ last night and didn’t have time to go home and change.”

  Sarah let out a raucous laugh. “ ‘Couging?’ Nice. We should use that in the Sliver Vodka ad.”

  I smirked at her. “Yeah, nice and subtle. The 40 something single women it’s targeted at will be sure to love that approach.”

  Running a hand through her thick brown curls, Sarah fluttered her eyelashes at me and whispered in a husky voice, “And by the way, it’s ‘baby cougar.’ I’m only 30,” then hissed at me and made a little clawing motion with her hand.

  “Oh my god, you kill me,” I said, shaking my head. Just then I heard the phone ringing in my office, and my shoulders tensed.

  Sarah shook her head and said, “You better get that. It’s been ringing off the hook all morning.”

  I sighed deeply, smoothed down my skirt, and strode towards the phone. I looked at the caller id, but it said private. “Ms. Winters speaking, how can I help you?”

  “Mel.” At the sound of his voice, I got a queasy feeling in my gut, followed by a surge of anger.

  “Steven, you have to stop calling me. It’s over.” I heard him sighing on the other end.

  “I still don’t understand why,” he said. “We’re perfect for each other. We both want the same things.”

  I shook my head and started furiously rubbing my forehead. “Like what, Steven?”

  “You need stability, Mel. I can give that to you. I know deep down, you still have that wild streak in you, but I can help you tame that.”

  I let out a long, hysterical laugh, so long and loud that Sarah actually peeked her head inside my office to see if I was alright. I gave her a pained look; she nodded in understanding, and pulled close my door.

  “So excitement.

  I heard a long, frustrated sigh on the other end of the line. “I’ve invested two years into our relationship, Mel, and I’m not will to just give up on that.”

  I let out another short laugh. “Invested? Right, you see me as a form of investment. Kind of like a business transaction. We’ll let me put it in terms you might understand. You invested in the wrong stock, sweetheart. And your capital gains rate just plummeted hard core. Pull. Out. Now. Before you lose your dignity and self-respect along with the rest of it.”

  I swear I could hear him gritting his teeth on the other end of the line. Finally he said, every syllable laced with anger, “You’re not the woman I thought you were, Mel. I’ve given you several chances to see some sense, but you’re obviously too thick to see what’s good for you. Good bye, Mel. Take good care.”

  I felt all of the tension suddenly release from my shoulders. “You take good care too, Steven,” I said. After I hung up the phone, I sagged into my chair and breathed a sigh of relief. Then, almost instantly, I felt light and giddy, and I was tempted to get up and do a little happy dance right there in my office.

  The rest of the morning was business as usual. I started working on slogans for a luxury car ad campaign, and Jen came up with several alternative ad copies for the Sliver Vodka account. Just before lunch, I was looking over her work when my cell phone rang. I looked at the caller id, and once again the number was private. I felt a moment of dread, thinking Steven might have gotten hold of my new cell phone number, but then I got over it and answered the phone.

  “Hello, Ms. Winters,” said the husky voice on the other end of the l
ine. My stomach did a flip of joy, and I felt that same slow, sultry thrill rush up my spine. Just his voice alone made me melt and my whole body quiver with pleasure.

  “Well, if it isn’t the eagle-eyed real estate mogul,” I said, pleased with myself for maintaining such a smooth voice when my insides had turned to jelly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  I heard him chuckle softly on the other end of the line. “Well don’t you sound confident and authoritative today. I must have the wrong number. I was looking for the woman who nearly bolted out of the bar the moment I made eye contact with her.”

  I felt myself bristle slightly at his teasing tone. So he was poking fun at me. Well, two could play that game. “I only tried to bolt because you’re hideous to look at. A veritable eyesore, really. Your voice, on the other hand, is much more bearable.”

  I heard him chuckle again, this time loudly. “I thought you mistook me for a male supermodel. Must have been the Old Cubans talking.” There was a short pause. “In any event, I’m calling ‘cause I want to see you again.”

  For a moment my breath caught in my throat, and I couldn’t speak. Then I regained my composure and said, softly, “I want to see you too.”

  I could hear him smiling over the line. “I’m glad. My gallery, Gibson’s Fine Art, is on Mercer Street. In Soho. I’d like to take you there. I think I have exactly the kind of photograph you’re looking for. Are you free tonight?”

  Once again my pulse quickened and heat flushed through my body. “Absolutely,” I said, suddenly feeling giddy again. I couldn’t believe the affect this man had on me. Just his voice alone made me so aroused. Just imagining what he could do with those sensuous lips and strong hands was enough to drive me completely cra excitement.

  I quickly checked my schedule and measured the pile of work on my desk. “I should be able to get out of here early today. Say, by 6pm”

  “Great. See you at the gallery at 7pm. And please do wear those stilettos. Those shoes and your fabulous legs have been invading my dreams all weekend.”

  And with that, he hung up, leaving me literally panting on the other end of the line.

  ***

  Coming up the stairs from the subway onto Canal street, I was hit with an invigorating blast of crisp fall air. Only 6:45pm, and it was already dusk. This was my favorite ritual: after finishing the day’s work, strolling along the vibrant streets of Manhattan, and falling in love all over again with the magic of this incredible city. I pulled up the collar of my black trench coat and trudged west toward Mercer Street. Street hawkers were still selling their wares, and my eye caught on a knock off of a gold Chanel handbag. As I passed a vendor, I heard the sizzle of grease and smelled the pungent odor of sauerkraut and Italian sausage. All around me was the clicking of heels on the sidewalk, the honks of cars, flashing break lights, endless exuberant chatter, and the clank and rattle of metal as the cheap aluminum doors of the store fronts came down, signaling the end of the business day.

  Mercer Street itself was quieter, a narrow one way street with the old-world charm of cobblestone and a mix of cast-iron buildings and classical French architecture. As I neared Gibson’s Fine Art gallery, my stomach clenched in nervous anticipation, and my heart started slamming against my ribcage. I wasn’t going to lie to myself. I couldn’t wait to see this man again. He had a potency and magnetism like no other, and he practically oozed a dark sensuality that stirred to life a part of me I’d been keeping caged for far too long. I slowed my steps as I recognized from the website two imposing glass doors, flanked by floor to ceiling windows. The interior was airy, with high ceilings, pale wood floors, and bright lighting. Peering in, I noticed that the gallery was empty.

  I looked at my watch. Five to seven. I was early. I took a deep breath, and tightened my mauve silk scarf as a brisk breeze ruffled my hair. At the sound of approaching footsteps, I turned around. And there he was. Dressed in a teak Armani suit that emphasized his broad strong shoulders and was tailored to show off the perfect V of his chest and abs. I watched, transfixed, holding my breath, as his perfect, powerful frame moved gracefully toward me, his pale gold silk tie gleaming in the last rays of the sun. I felt my lip start to tremble, and my knees weaken. I had to place a hand on the door of the gallery to steady myself. As he neared, I took a deep breath and tried to steel myself against the impact he had on me. I beamed at him and looked directly into those glorious green eyes. He grinned in response, and his eyes flashed with pleasure.

  “Where’s the motorcycle jacket?” I asked, placing one hand on my hip and smirking at him.

  He shrugged and said “Monday is formal day,” and let his eyes trail down to my feet. “Where are the stilettos?” He frowned slightly, and shook his head. “I was so looking forward to seeing you in those fire-engine red stilettos,” he added softly.

  I looked at him in mock horror and said “Stilettos on cobblestones? Are you trying to kill me?”

  He smiled and said “Parisian women do it every day.” Then, moving his face so his lips were just inches from mine and I could feel his hot breath against my skin, he added “And you should get lots of practice. I plan on taking you to Paris very soon.” Then he brushed his lips gently across mine, and gave me a scorching hot look. I felt my sex tighten and ache for him; I was ready to surrender to him right then and there, outside of the gallery, but he pulled back and grabbed my hand. “Come on,” he said. “I want to show you something.”

  ***

  The moment we entered the gallery, my eyes fixed on a Dan Colen that I’d been dying to get my hands on for years. “That collage,” I said, my voice full of excitement, “It’s from Colen’s ‘Blowing in the Wind’ series.”

  Bradley peered down at me with a curious look. “You know Dan Colen’s work?”

  Taking off my trench coat and slipping it onto a chair, I said, “I not only know it, I love it! And that piece is incredible. I love its vibrancy. It’s just dripping with energy and color. With life, you know? It just puts me in such a good mood.” I started peering excitedly at everything around me, my eyes wanting to be everywhere at once. “And that Chuck Close self-portrait is also awesome. I love how he represented his head as a beehive, a place of wild activity.”

  Bradley chuckled. “You seem to know a lot about art,” he said, his expression full of curiosity and interest.

  I tore my eyes away from the canvases to look up at him, and smiled brightly. “I have my master’s in art history,” I said.

  His eyes twinkling, he studied me for a moment. “I would have taken you for corporate,” he said.

  I made a face at him, then smiled sheepishly. “Actually, I’m a senior copywriter now.”

  His eyes flashed, and he nodded his head slowly. “So you gave up your passion for stability.”

  My gut twisted uncomfortably. I looked down at my Jimmy Choo pumps for a moment, and then met his eye. “We all have to grown up sometime.”

  His eyes darkened and his face clouded over. “Growing up and giving up your dreams are two different things, Melanie.”

  I could feel my cheeks flush with humiliation, and I looked away. He gently grabbed me by the chin and tilted my face up toward him. “It was a man, wasn’t it,” he said, a trace of anger in his tone.

  Frowning, I bit my lip, and then shook my head. “No, it wasn’t. I mean, yes, I picked someone who wanted a conventional life, but it’s not like he forced me to do anything. I just…well, my mom, Stella Winters….she’s such a talented artist…and so full of life, just pulsing with this wild energy. But she hurt me. She hurt my dad.”

  I felt myself stiffen, and my eyes well up with tears. Bradley pulled out a monogrammed handkerchief, handed it to me, and used his thumb to gently wipe away a tear from the corner of my eye. My chest heaved in a sob, and the rest just came spilling out. “She left when I was seven. For a year. She just took off. She told my dad she felt too tied down. She needed her freedom. My dad tried to tell me there was some emergency, she would never leave otherw
ise, but I knew he was lying. I overheard their fights.”

  I couldn’t keep the tears in any longer, and they started to spill down my cheeks. “She picked art over me. I mean, she came back, but I’ve never been able to forgive her. And it scares me, ‘cause I know deep down I’m like her, and I’m going to hurt people. With my recklessness, just like she did.”

  Bradley wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me close. Surrounded by his strength, feeling his solid, warm chest against my cheek, made me feel so safe. “Hey,” he whispered in my ear. “You’re not your mom.” He pulled me back to get a look at my face. “You’ve got a steadiness your mom doesn’t have.”